No Son of Mine
by Virgo Writer
Summary: Liir contemplates his time with the witch and opens a window to the past.
1. No one Mourns the Wicked

Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked.

No Son of Mine – No One Mourns the Wicked

"She always liked you more than me," Liir complained to the Monkey, unable to stop his expression from souring. As much as he liked to pretend that he was indifferent to the Witch and that her changeable moods had not affected him, in truth he was like a dog begging at the table: scrounging for any shred of affection she was willing to toss his way.

"I think she liked everyone more than me," he added stonily, "except maybe Manek and the Sisters."

The Monkey shrugged, his old wings twitching at the movement. "Liked me," Chistery agreed. "Loved you."

Liir scoffed, grimacing in reply. "I see you're still having difficulties with your homonyms," he stated blandly, recalling the way Chistery repeated strings of similar sounding words as he came to terms with language. "The word is 'loathed', Chistery, and I don't even think I garnered that much from her – that would require her actually acknowledging some sort of emotion. I was nothing. Just some random orphan that got dumped on her by the maunts. A condition on her passage to Vinkus. She had no choice but to take me with her."

Chistery shook his head, and gave Liir a sceptical look. Liir understood exactly what Chistery wasn't saying, the words taunting him cruelly: _'Nobody could make Elphaba do anything she didn't want to do. If you believe that, then you didn't know her at all.'_

"I didn't. Not really," Liir answered to the unspoken remark. "And that makes me more the fool, loving her as I did and expecting her to feel the slightest inclination towards me in return. Even if it does turn out in the end that Elphaba," he said this awkwardly, not used to referring to the Witch by her given name, "was my mother and Fiyero my father, there was nothing obliging her to love me."

Chistery looked almost sympathetic, dropping a hand on Liir's shoulder in a gesture that was remarkably human. "You just not see it," he argued. "She refused . . . not want to see it . . . she worry about you. Always checked on you. Always loved you."

Liir just smiled at him painfully. "She would be proud to see you now," he told the Monkey. "Lies are probably the ultimate proof of sentience. You lie as well as any man I know."

"And you are as stubborn as Mule I know," Chistery countered, considering that proof in itself of Liir's relation to the witch. "Why do you refuse to accept truth?"

Liir shook his head. "I may not have known her, but I know what she was not.

"But thank you, Chistery, for caring enough to lie to me," he said as he stood, stretching his legs for a moment. "I should see Nanny before I go."

"She sleeping now," Chistery told him, reluctantly dropping the subject of Elphaba and any possible regard she might have felt. "You should leave her. She be better later – this might be last time you see her."

Liir doubted that would be the case – Nanny was already so old, she'd likely outlive them all. "I suppose I can sleep myself," he suggested all the same, his voice tired and worn. "Wake me when she's ready for me."

He turned slowly and was on his way. He trudged along, first making his way towards the room he had occasionally shared with Nor, then changing his mind at the last moment and heading towards the Witch's tower instead. The talk with Chistery had opened old wounds and dredged up old feelings of longing and loneliness – of wishing for comfort from the one person he knew was incapable of providing it.

He couldn't remember grieving for Elphaba; he had hardly given himself the chance. His life has been so full of quests and missions over the past few years that there wasn't the time to simply stop and think about what had happened – to think about how much he missed her even though she was hardly around most of the time. The slightest glance from her had been worth more than any other interaction he'd been privy to.

The starving dog analogy felt almost painfully appropriate.

Standing inside the room was at first a strangely alien feeling. He had spent much of his youth on the other side of the door longing for admission into her little secluded world – into her life – or at least at the bottom of the stairs working up the courage to move as close as she would allow him. Now she was gone, and the room seemed empty and bland without her presence. There was no reason to want to be in the tower without Elphaba to fill the space.

He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the various objects he associated with his witchy guardian. There were books – lots of books – and dark pieces of cloth strewn over open windows. There was a table set up with the various tools of her research and little pots of herbs and oils for her spells. There was a single chair sat near the door and a pile of straw covered by a blanket that had probably served as a bed, although he knew she rarely slept. There was a closet against one side hanging open to reveal her tiny stock of clothing.

He moved slowly around the room, pawing over every item and feeling stupidly sentimental. He had to laugh at himself, scorning his own sentiment. He had stupidly attached himself to Elphaba and now he was attaching himself to her things in a sad attempt to ease the sense of loss. None of it really meant anything to him. He had no memories associated with any of it, no reason to consider it so dearly, and yet every item tugged at his heartstrings. It was all just junk, but it was _her_ junk and it was all that was left of her.

Liir stopped at the cupboard, tears stinging his eyes as he looked at the dresses that hung there. He pulled one free of its hanger and laid it down on the makeshift bed, before laying down beside it and resting his head on the bosom as he had longed to do in his youth. He took a deep breath through his nose, recognizing the scent that still clung to the fabrics after nearly seven years. Thick tears fell silently down his cheeks, soaking the dark brocade. It had been so long since he had let himself think of her, and it all crashed down upon him painfully, tearing itself to the forefront of his mind.

He breathed in deeply once again, nuzzling into the fabric and thinking back to the journey to Kiamo Ko when she had allowed him to lay his head on her shoulder as he slept. The scent of her that lingered in the room settled him to a degree, giving him enough calm to close his eyes, and dream.

_A young novice stood alone in the chapel, carefully lighting candles for the service. She daydreamed as she worked, the menial task occupying very little of her thoughts. She dreamed of being stolen away from the chapel of Saint Glinda by some King of Thieves and being surrounded by jewels as he tried to convince her to be his queen. She thought of all her friends whose parents had not sent them away to become a maunt and jealously wondered if Salvo would keep his promise to wait for her escape._

_She thought of everything and nothing, but her wandering thoughts were halted as she heard a strangled sob echo through the chapel._

"_Who's there?" she called cautiously, holding out a candle to light the space around her._

_Another cry sounded and the novice walked cautiously towards a small alcove where an altar was set up in tribute of their patron saint. She gasped at what she saw. A green figure was crouched in front of the altar, but for once the colour of this woman's skin was not the thing that had the audience gaping in surprise._

"_I –I . . . stay right there," she told the woman, her eyes widening at the sight of so much blood staining woman's hands, face, and clothing. "I'll get Sister Doctor."_

"_Mother Superior!" she cried as she ran through the mauntuary. "There's a woman in the chapel. I think she's dying. There was so much blood."_

_The Superior Maunt moved quickly, collecting both Sister Doctor and Sister Apothecary on her way. Like the young novice, the three of them were shocked at the amount of blood on the woman, and the two medical maunts rushed forward to wipe it away. On closer inspection, they found dried blood caked onto her clothes and in her hair, but the only wounds they could find were the two rivulets cut down the sides of her face. There was no other source, but there was so much blood, and it was not her own._

"_Child, stop," the Superior Maunt commanded of the crying woman. She could see the source of the wounds was self-inflicted – her own tears were burning into her skin and causing her more pain. "You'll only hurt yourself more."_

"_Let me be," the woman sobbed loudly. "I hardly feel it." She sobbed even louder and the maunts doubted her words. How could someone cry like that if they didn't feel any pain? The sounds she was making were so haunting and distressing that it seemed as though they could feel the pain themselves._

"_Yero," she muttered in her sobs. "Oh, Yero my hero."_

"_She's manic," Sister Doctor diagnosed. "You should give her something to subdue her," she suggested to Sister Apothecary. "She's not going to let us treat her in this state."_

_Sister Apothecary looked to the Superior Maunt for confirmation and the woman nodded. The sister disappeared momentarily, returning with a syringe of milky coloured liquid, which she injected into the green skinned woman. She started for a moment, a silent scream on her lips, before suddenly flopping down to the ground unconscious._

"_What did you give her?" Sister Doctor asked out of curiosity._

"_Milkweed."_

"_Isn't that dangerous?" asked the young novice who had watched the whole scene with great interest._

_The two sisters looked at Mother Superior for a moment but said nothing. Eventually the Superior Maunt spoke, looking evenly at the young novice as she spoke in a calm tone. "Miss Theresa, I think the time has come for you depart from this place," the maunt suggested. "You have made such progress, but I think there is nothing more that we can do for you at Saint Glinda's."_

"_I-I guess," the young novice, Theresa, replied. "Wh-what will happen to he-"_

"_She will be looked after," the maunt replied. "No need to turn your mind to it, Miss Theresa," she added. Somehow there was a threatening chill to the words – it seemed more a demand than a suggestion – and Theresa could do nothing but nod her head in assent._

"_Very well," the Superior Maunt agreed. "I'll have someone pack your things. I hope the Unnamed God treats you well, Miss Theresa."_

_As the three maunts walked away, taking the comatose body of the green woman with them, Theresa couldn't help but feel as though her silence had been bought. And although she felt bad for whatever would become of this woman, she realized that nothing was too high a price for freedom. _

_Not even her conscience._

_~ to be continued ~_

So this is one of those things that have been sitting on my computer for awhile. The intention was for it to cover the events of Elphaba's pregnancy, but I never managed to get beyond the second chapter, so I will simply have to accept that this fic wants to be a two-shot and leave it at that.

Let me know what you think.


	2. Born Wicked

Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked. I also paraphrased a quote from Steve Biko: "The most powerful weapon of the hands of the oppressor is the minds of the oppressed."

Here is Part II. It's been a while since I read Wicked/Son of a Witch/A Lion Among Men (I still haven't gotten around to reading Out of Oz) had to come up with a bit of language for the Arjikis, and at some point in my life I decided that Arjikis were some kind of middle-eastern (I like to think of them as sort of Persian/Iranian) and so I went with Farsi/Persian - it's only the word for my so nothing to worry about. Hope you enjoy.

No Son of Mine – Born Wicked

She was barely conscious, and yet she was aware of everything around her. She knew exactly what time the medical maunt arrived every day to inject her with more of the mind-dulling milkweed. She knew that there were two novices that watched over her – one at night and one during the day – and that they reported even the slightest change in her countenance to Sister Apothecary, who would adjust her dose to any signs of awareness. She knew what the two medical sisters meant when they were talking about her _condition_ – as they tended to refer to it – and as they wondered allowed how she might have come to be in such a condition.

And she knew Fiyero was dead. It was the thing she knew above all else, but due to the effects of the milkweed, she was numb to this fact. He was dead, and she only felt it in the smallest way – in the brief niggling at her heart that told her she should feel more. The modern medical marvel of traditional knowledge and plant chemistry had reduced her grief to a mere niggle and a voice in the back of her mind that demanded her to _feel_.

In her barely conscious state, she knew she should feel – knew it like she knew that her _condition_ was something she should attend to and like she knew that Fiyero was gone – but she couldn't let herself feel it. She still remembered what feeling had done to her – how loving Fiyero had left her on the brink of death – and so she couldn't let herself feel more than that mere niggle that reminded her of what she felt and how much she would hurt if she let herself.

"She's not done anything today," the novice said as Sister Apothecary came to check in. "She's just been sitting there, looking at her stomach as though she doesn't understand what's going on."

"Good," Sister Apothecary nodded. "It seems we've found the optimal dose for keeping her subdued."

"I really think you should cut back," Sister Doctor noted. She had followed in shortly after Sister Apothecary and was currently doing some necessary checks on the patient. "What with her _condition_ . . ."

Sister Apothecary cut her off with a wave of her hand, saving Sister Doctor from having to elaborate on the nature of the condition. "It's fine," she insisted pompously. "The worst it will do is bleach the thing, and given the look of her, we'd probably be doing the thing a favour."

It was always _the thing_, never a boy or a girl or a child or a baby. Just _the thing_, as though they didn't believe that what was inside her was human. What were they expecting? Some froggy, ferny cabbage with a mop of dark hair. Just because she doubted her own humanity, didn't mean the thing inside of her was any less human – it was part Fiyero after all, and that in its self gave it a sort of magnificence that didn't justify their malevolence.

If she had been more conscious she would have told them where they could put their self-important, narrow-minded charity and been blown of their 'help'. But she wasn't, not enough to fight against the milkweed or the maunts. She hadn't the will to utter anything but a name – to give them something to call him other than the derisive _thing_.

"Liir," she uttered softly, a weak hand trailing over her stomach. "Liir."

"Did she say something?" Sister Apothecary questioned, already leaning towards her drugs. They simply couldn't have the patient talking of all things. Who knew what she might say and whom she might have the chance to implicate if she was more aware of herself.

Sister Doctor scoffed derisively. "You're rather jab-happy today, aren't you Sister Apothecary?" she scorned. "It was nothing. Just an expulsion of breath, Sister. It didn't even sound like a real word."

"No, I'm sure," Sister Apothecary retorted. "She definitely said something. Like 'liar'," she said with a meaningful glance at her sister.

"Liir," the novice corrected from her place at the patient's bedside. "She said 'Liir'. It's a name. An Arjikis name."

Sister Doctor still looked sceptical. "And how would _you_ know this?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at the young girl.

The girl flushed, unwilling to reveal that the source of such knowledge was her own bloodline. She considered herself very lucky in that she didn't much resemble her race, and so was able to assimilate into Oz society despite being born and raised on the grasslands. She didn't doubt the backlash that would result if she revealed her true origins to the two women who she often saw snarling at the poor Quadling girls dropped into the mauntuary, most of them – like her self – the result of war unions.

"Not now," Sister Apothecary muttered, deeming the matter too trivial for their attention – they could deal with the novice's questionable origins at some other time. "What does it mean?"

"It's a name," the girl reiterated, not really understanding the point of the question. "Why do you say names?"

The maunt tsked at the answer, not pleased by the unhelpful reply. "I meant, what does the name mean," the nun corrected. "Or do Arjikis names not have meanings."

"Oh," the girl replied, "well, in the feminine it means 'heart' and in the masculine it means . . . um . . . 'purpose'."

"And which is this?" the maunt asked, wondering if the patient knew something about the thing that they didn't.

"I don't know," the novice shrugged. "It's the same name either way. That's probably why she chose it."

"You think she's _naming_ the thing?" Sister Doctor asked in horror, appalled by the suggestion.

"Why else would she say it?" the novice asked obviously. "She was correcting you. I don't think she likes you calling it a 'thing'."

Sister Apothecary narrowed her eyes, looking personally offended by the novice's words. "That's preposterous," she muttered. "She doesn't even know where she is, let alone of her own _condition_. You obviously misheard, and if you didn't, then we need to up her dosage again."

The novice felt a pang of guilt at this, judging that Sister Doctor would not prevent her sister from doing so this time. She glanced at the patient, seeing the distant look on her face turn to a small smile as she patted her own swollen stomach.

"No, I think you're right," the novice said quickly. "I'm probably just imagining things. I always thought it was a nice name," she added, trying to give support to her story. "If I had a child, I think I'd want to call it Liir."

"I suppose there are worse names for a child," Sister Doctor murmured in agreement, accepting the novice's reasoning and putting the brief episode behind them. "At least it's not some ridiculous Quadling name like 'Quill' or 'Ant Hill." She let out a derisive snort, amused by her own superiorist humour. "You know they just name them after the first thing they see. I once met one called 'Puddle Rock' of all things."

Sister Apothecary laughed in agreement. "Perhaps we should follow the same route and just name it after whatever we see when the beast comes out," she suggested. "We can call it 'little green Chamber Pot'."

"Liir," the green woman murmured once again, perhaps with more insistence. Sister Apothecary glared at her in response, much more certain this time that it wasn't a mere expulsion of breath. She was already – once again – inching towards her medicines, the sharply pointed needle calling her name.

"Oh leave her be," the Superior Maunt told them, having entered the room while the two laughed about Quadling customs. "Let her have this. It's the least we can do."

The two medical maunts looked at her in confusion, neither understanding what it was she trying to say or what they could possibly owe to the green skinned woman. They had, after all, taken her in and given her medical care out of the goodness of their hearts (and the mercy of Unnamed god) and could hardly see how the balance had shifted in her favour.

The Superior Maunt gave them both meaningful looks, silently dismissing the young novice with a wave of her hand. "Well we can hardly let her keep the child," the Superior Maunt told them once she was certain they were completely alone.

"I don't see why not," Sister Doctor replied, her lip curled in derision. "Who else would take the beast?"

"Sister Doctor," the Superior Maunt warned her, silently reminding the medical maunts that they were sisters of charity. "It would be best for our purposes if she and the child were separated."

"And what purposes are those?" Sister Apothecary questioned idly. "Those of the Unnamed god? Or those of The Resistance?"

"The purposes of The Resistance are those of the Unnamed god," Mother Superior responded with full religious vigour. "We can't allow the child to distract her and get in the way of these purposes."

Sister Doctor looked confused, frowning at the suggestion that the green agent still had a use after what had happened. "But she failed?" Sister Doctor noted. "How could she be of any use to any of us after that?"

The Superior Maunt shrugged. "She has become something of a creature of myth," she responded. "The most powerful weapon you have is the mind of one's enemies and their own twisted imaginings. She need do nothing more than exist."

"The figurative witch trapped in the cave," Sister Doctor said, catching on to their plans. "A misdirection," she continued agreeably, "and while they're all losing their heads wondering when the Green Witch will strike next, The Resistance will do their work. She'll be a martyr for the cause."

"I wouldn't say martyr," Sister Apothecary corrected disdainfully. The witch was certainly no martyr – all green and wicked – but rather a sacrificial lamb. Martyrs, of course, went knowingly to their fates and sacrificed themselves for the sake of higher causes. The witch was a victim, not a volunteer – a sacrifice, not a saint.

Sister Doctor rolled her eyes, refusing to put any further thought into it mostly because the word martyr settled easiest with her conscience. "And what should we do with little Liir?" she asked, sarcasm dripping off her words.

"Send it to the orphanage," the Superior Maunt answered. "For all intents and purposes, it has no parent to lay claim."

"And if it's green?" Sister Doctor had to ask, a half-amused smirk pulling onto her lips.

Sister Maunt gave her a serious look, her eyes voicing the words and undercurrent of what she said aloud.

"Then we'll just have to find some other way to get rid of it."

* * *

It rained the night he was born.

They should have known the moment the wind picked up that the baby was coming.

Elphaba screamed as she fought against each contraction, knowing what would happen just as soon as the thing was expelled from her body. They would take him and they'd have no more reason to let her stay as she was. As soon as they'd taken the thing away they would send her back to the cause and her life would be theirs once again.

And so she fought against them, crying out for Fiyero as the mind-dulling milk-weed metabolized from her system. They couldn't continue to drug her so close to the birth – past events showed that the effects of continued use could be aversive to both mother and child. Not that they cared much about either, but the witch couldn't serve her purpose if she was dead, so they had to do what was best for her in the meantime.

Eventually they were left with no choice.

"We'll have to cut it out," Sister Doctor said plainly. "She's not co-operating."

Sister Apothecary looked shocked. "We don't have the equipment for that," the other maunt proclaimed. "And you certainly don't have the expertise."

"It's not like we have a better option," Sister Doctor responded. "If we keep going like this we'll lose the both of them. And what good will that do us?"

"Sisters," the Superior Maunt said coolly, stepping in before more words could be hurled in the crossfire. "Did it not occur that perhaps we could negotiate with the patient?"

"Now, Elphaba, my dear," she continued, her face as placid as her voice as she directed her attention to the green witch. The woman sneered in response, but quieted for the moment.

"You are proving yourself quite troublesome to both sides, Miss Elphaba," the Superior Maunt said with a sigh. "So how about this," she said with a cruel smile. "If you co-operate now, and in the interim, I will let you have your child.

"In exactly seven year," she continued, "you will leave the mauntery and you may take your child with you."

The Superior Maunt paused for a moment as the woman studied her with intelligent eyes. "You have my word," she promised. "No harm will come to the child, but first you must co-operate with us."

Eventually Elphaba nodded, and when the next contraction came, she pushed as instructed. And again until a high-pitched wail finally cut through her own cries.

"I need to see him," Elphaba begged as the maunts swaddled her child in blankets.

The Superior Maunt shook her head, a patronizing smile playing on her lips. "You will in time, sister. You have my word," the maunt reminded her. "But not yet."

"Please," Elphaba tried again, words weak and the lure of sleep strong. "Just once."

The Superior Maunt glance to the other nuns who shrugged in response. "Just once," she said after a beat, taking the child from Sister Doctor and holding the boy just within her reach.

"_Liir man,"_ Elphaba said softly as she brushed her fingertips against his forehead, leaving a cluster of silver coloured diamonds on shimmer briefly against his temple. And then she felt a brief sting in her arm, and the darkness came over her.

And so she slept. For seven years.

Until she could finally awake and take back what was hers.

Liir man.

_My purpose._


End file.
